


Wings

by derangedfangirl



Category: Top Gun (1986), X-Men (Movies)
Genre: Kink Meme, M/M, X-Men Crossover, winged!Iceman
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-05-20
Updated: 2012-05-20
Packaged: 2017-11-05 16:25:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/408527
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/derangedfangirl/pseuds/derangedfangirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Maverick has never seen Iceman naked.<br/>top_gun_kink prompt fill: "I'd rather like to see some winged!Iceman/Maverick. Maybe Ice is an angel, maybe the wings are a government experiment- the how isn't important, I just think it would be neat. Preferably written from Mav's POV, please."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wings

averick has never seen Iceman naked.  
  
He realizes this about two weeks into the program, and it’s not in, like, a _gay_ way or anything, it’s just that Ice never changes with the rest of the guys.  Obviously Maverick follows Locker Room Etiquette, and it’s not like he actually _wants_ to see Ice in all his (completely unproven) glory, it’s just that it’s weird and secretive and it makes him really goddamn uncomfortable for reasons he can’t identify.  Christ, he can’t even think of a single time he’s seen Ice in anything less than a flight suit or his uniform, and that’s just not _normal_.     
  
Maverick almost just dismisses it as just another part of Ice’s fucking bizarre prissy bullshit, but something in the back of his brain is hanging onto it like his grandma's rat terrier on his pant leg in the 4th grade, and he just can't seem to let it go.   That same part of his brain has taken to observing Ice’s patterns, as it were, and Maverick now has relatively clear data on the matter:  
  
Iceman is the first one to get into the locker room, possibly using secret tunnels or voodoo magic or goddamn teleportation, because he’s always dressed for that day’s hop before anybody else even gets there.  Afterwards, Ice is always the last one in and almost everyone is gone by the time he actually deigns to grace them with his sparkling presence.  Before, Maverick just thought he was a damn teacher’s pet, talking technique or some shit with Jester, but anymore, he suspects Ice is just dawdling.  
  
Ice never showers on base.  Never.    
  
Not after hours.  Not when he’s running late.  Not when they’re heading straight to the Officers’ Club after final hop and it doesn’t make sense to go home first.  Not even when it might as well be 300 degrees out with the San Diego heat collaborating with their gear and adrenaline and the heat coming off the tarmac to make them all ill-tempered and miserable and wanting nothing more than a cool shower and a cold beer.  Not ever.     
  
Maverick mentions it to Goose over drinks at the O-club, when his tongue gets a little liquor-loose.  Goose chokes on his beer, wipes off his mouth, then stares at him, face gone asymmetrical with gobsmacked concern.  His hand twitches like he wants to touch Maverick’s forehead to rule out a fever.  “What?”  
  
“He never showers in the locker room.”  
  
“I don’t-”  
  
“Ice.  Iceman.  You know, tall bottle blonde, ego like this?”  Maverick spreads his arms wide to demonstrate the size of the aforementioned ego, and Goose opens his mouth, but before anything can come out, a voice booms from just over Maverick’s right shoulder, or maybe not really booms, but it feels like it-  
  
“C’mon Mitchell, my cock isn’t that big.”    
  
Maverick spills his drink all down the front of his neatly pressed dress-whites, curses everything from Ice’s parentage and the ridiculous height of his hair, then spins on his heel to face Ice, sipping on a vodka neat, teeth flashing at him.    
  
“Fuck you, Kazansky.” he mutters.  It’s a terrible comeback.  Goose still looks mildly concerned.  Iceman shoots him an odd look, then swirls his drink around in his glass before downing the rest in one.    
  
“Mmm.  Right.”  he claps a hand to Maverick’s shoulder, all masculine pseudo-friendliness, and Maverick thinks he might have just heard one of his own molars crack under the strain of his clenched jaw.  “You uh, might wanna go get yourself cleaned up, Maverick,” his face heats at the tone of the man’s voice, condescending fucking _jackass_ , tapping the final syllable hard,  “Gonna be hard to pick up the hot bottle blonde over there with beer all down your front.”  Ice shoots a meaningful glance in the direction of the woman Maverick had been hitting on earlier.  Mav does his best not to splutter like a wet cat.   
  
Ice’s eyes widen innocently.   
  
“What?”  
  
“Bottle blonde.”  Mav grinds out.  “You’re one to talk.”  He’s not sure why he feels defensive about this.    
  
Ice shoots him a grin that's somehow both beatific and predatory, clinking his empty glass against Mav’s (now mostly empty) bud light, “Not me.  I’m all natural.”  
  
And then he’s gone.  
  
“What in the actual fuck just happened?” Goose mumbles.  Maverick just shakes his head, eyes locked on Ice’s retreating back.  
  
“I’m gonna figure that fucker out if it kills me, Goose.”  The gravity of his tone is impressive, really.    
  
Goose lays his head down on the table.  “Of course you are.”  If he sounds less than enthused, Pete Mitchell is entirely too consumed by Planning Some Truly Fucking Clever Espionage to notice.


End file.
